


Poisonous Affairs, My Dear

by gaywizard



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 14th century but probably not v accurate, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wings, aziraphale gets poisoned but crowley unpoisons him, brief mentions of plague, crowley can feel despair the same way az feels love >:3, its cute i promise, this is a big ole shmoopfest lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 05:09:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20285926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaywizard/pseuds/gaywizard
Summary: Aziraphale overmiracled, Gabriels a lil shit, and Crowley's been drunk for about thirty years. Happy 14th century.(aka; lots of arguing, overuse of italics, and some completely self indulgent church-top crying)





	Poisonous Affairs, My Dear

**Author's Note:**

> @e-ellie on tumblr was v helpful when writing this and their art is,,, as you say,,, Divine
> 
> based on this text post kinda:  
https://ohthisismuchworse.tumblr.com/post/186853546593/the-hero-shows-up-at-the-villains-doorstep-one

“Really? Are you _ sure _?” The archangel Gabriel said with a somewhat condescending smirk(to be fair, all of his smiles were condescending. Most of his facial expressions were). 

“Quite,” Sandalphon said with an equally condescending smile. They were stuck in a never ending loop of condescend. It had been some six thousand odd years, and they were still at it with the condescending. 

The list that was clutched(held daintily, but clutched was a more apt term) in Gabriel’s hand was a shockingly long list of recent miracles on earth, by the Principality Aziraphale, their ‘Earth Agent’. A somewhat lax, soft little angel, but a personal favourite of Hers. 

“Well, we know what to do with people who abuse the system!” Gabriel said, with a scoffing little chuckle, after an uncomfortably long pause. Sandalphon made a similarly awful chortling noise. 

“Take the system away!’

They chortled for a good minute, relishing in their Massive Intellect. Gabriel snapped with a tinkling little pop, and _ something _changed for the worse.

\---

It should be noted, of course, that the only reasons angels are regarded better than any demon is propaganda. Aziraphale was quite possibly the only decent angel out of the whole lot of them, compassion making him notable for helping those in need with a kind smile and comforting hand. 

The rest of the angels, however, were complete and utter shitheads(pardon my French). The only _ real _ difference between them and demons was that Hell’s underlings knew how to _ party _. 

\---

Crowley could bust some _ moves _ at the drop of a hat. Or, rather, he could, if he wasn’t slumped against the wall of his modest cottage on the edge of the small village. Another human had died of the black plague, next door, and he felt like he was drowning. 

All of the fear, the anxiety, was amplified tenfold in his head. The despair left a bitter taste in the back of his throat, and he couldn’t bear to move. His bones ached, the weight of the worlds suffering pinning him to the floor, and his- no, not his- _ the _ angel hadn’t bothered to see if he was still kicking in some thirty years(it was 28 years, he couldn’t lie to himself. He knew each and every day that passed without the angel in it). 

To put it briefly- the fourteenth century was kicking his ass. Oh, sure, Hell loved him for The Great Plague, and the wars that were taking more and more people were thrilling the higher ups. He didn’t, of course, mention that the thing with the rats was an accident, and that he was getting absolutely sloshed with Aziraphale during most of the big battles. He didn’t have much of a stomach for killing, anyway.

There was a bottle on the floor. It probably had liquor in it. Crowley didn’t actually remember, his gaze swimming slightly. The heart grinding ache from the awfulness surrounding him made it hard to recall. He drank it anyway.

\---

Aziraphale had mentioned, ages ago, offhandedly, that he could feel love. A ringing in his ears, tingling in his fingertips. Something like that. Asked Crowley if he had something similar, and Crowley had downed the rest of whatever was in his mug at the time(they were at a small russian bar, very interesting drinks) and wincing. 

‘Something like that.’ Was his response. He didn’t clarify, and Aziraphale didn’t ask. Maybe if he had, Crowley wouldn’t be there, trying to drink an entire countries sorrows away. Ah, well, wishful thinking.

\---

At the time, Aziraphale was in a tavern across town. It smelled foul, making his nose wrinkle in distaste. He had a vague idea of Crowley’s whereabouts, usually did, but he had rather hoped the demon would be at the tavern(vague not being particularly helpful, see, and usually only helping with finding which town he was in. Or recently in, as it had been on a few occurrences). 

He was drinking something, beer mayhaps, at the scungy bar, when he felt something a little like a punch to the gut. He doubled over in surprise, waving a weak hand at the barkeep(who was patting him gently, concern for the patron, and also not having someone die in his bar for the third time this week, all over his face) and coughing. 

He had no idea what the fuck had just happened, but it most certainly wasn’t going to be good. The stabbing pain in his gut started to fade, and he sat back up with an inelegant noise. The barkeep was still staring at him, looking on the verge of asking him to leave before he died, and Aziraphale summoned up a shaky smile. 

“Sorry, just had some…” He trailed off. “Indigestion.” 

The barkeep nodded uncertainly. 

“That's alright, that is, but I’d ‘ppreciate if you weren’t sick on my bar.”

Aziraphale nodded. He frowned into his sketchy wooden mug and tried to sober up. 

It didn’t work. 

He frowned harder, but the faint wink of ineffable power was _ just _out of reach, weirdly. The alcohol was still coursing through his system, murking up his judgement, but he at least still had some coins in his pocket. He had traded a book, or a tablet, something, earlier that day, and he slid a few of the slips of metal to the barkeep. 

His head was swimming, and he had a feeling it wasn’t just from the alcohol. Dread curled in his stomach. There was a man sitting next to him who had a fierce grin on his face, missing some teeth, but sharp and glinting in the dimly lit tavern. 

Aziraphale was, quite suddenly, terrified. 

“Afternoon, poncy fella’,” The sharp little man said, sidling closer. There was something in his hand, and Aziraphale squinted uneasily. 

“Wh- what’s happened?” Aziraphale wasn’t drunk. At most, he would have been tipsy, so this was something else _ entirely _. Something else, most assuredly of the ungood variety. 

“M’afraid I’ve given you a bit of my little friend here,” The man said, his grin widening. He held up the tiny bottle in his hand, the thick liquid glimmering unnaturally in the dark room. Sounds seemed to overwhelm Aziraphale, the raucous noise from the bar slamming through his skull.

He tried, once again, to get the poison out of his system. 

Nothing happened. 

His vision was swimming, things shifting in and out of focus at random. 

“.. Friend?” Aziraphale said uncertainly, finally, finally, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. The man huffed a little laugh. 

“Not for you. Hand over your coins, kind sir, before I have to raid your corpse for ‘em,” He said quietly, wickedly, and Aziraphale wished Crowley was there. 

\---

Crowley’s head was in his hands, and he was murmuring under his breath. He didn’t remember starting to mutter, but his mouth was dry and his cheeks were caked with dried tears. 

He was praying. Or, pleading, rather. For it to _ end _ , for these poor people’s suffering to _ end, god fucking dammit _ . Just let them _ live _ , for _ once _ , was it really so fucking _ hard _?

He was also very, very drunk. 

He usually was.

\---

Aziraphale was very unsteady. The man who had poisoned him was leading him, surprisingly gently, towards the door. Aziraphale’s legs weren’t working quite right, and his hands were shaking almost as hard as his vision. Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth, and he lifted his hand to try and wipe it away. 

It glinted gold, catching the light briefly, before it faded to a strong, human red. 

Oh, if that was what was happening, he was _ fucked _. He had enough thought left to know that, for certain. He shouldn’t be bleeding red, for God’s sake. He was, he was-! 

He was about to die. 

So much for angels, huh?

\---

Crowley was laying fully down on the ground, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes, and only a hazy idea of the gloom dragging at his senses. He frowned, dazedly, because it felt like something was _ wrong _. Obviously, everything was wrong, but this was something specific. 

It felt like a cry for help, directed at him, in particular. 

He struggled somewhat upright, rubbing his temples with a wince. Alcohol drained from his system, filling the scattered bottles once more and leaving him gasping. 

Great, searing, _ agony _, boiled through his blood, made him let out a muffled scream. Pain, loss, fear, dread, distilled despair seemed to fill his lungs. 

Crowley sobbed brokenly. The absolute _ ache _ of lost children, of grief and fear and anxiety, absolutely pinned him to his spot. 

There was a _ very _ good reason why he had tried to as drunk as possible. 

Blindingly sober, his hands quaked and his tears ran fresh with the blood of the dead. 

But he could feel it, beside the screams for help, the general ones, _ anybody, God, just save my children! _

A cry for help. From him. 

Crowley, save me._ Please. _

Crowley choked out a cry. 

_ “ _The day isn’t done, and I’m still here, aren’t I?” 

It wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular, just something to try and clear his head. Justify his existence to the Creator, maybe. Bitter sorrow coated his teeth, the misery of millions leaving him panting. 

_ Crowley, I need you, please. _

He had to get up. 

\---

Aziraphale was panicking. No one would blame him, in the circumstances. The menecary was waiting while Aziraphale leaned against the side of the building, looking almost bored. 

“Just gimme the coins, yeah?” The man said, crossing his arms with a frown. “You’re gonna die anyway, and I don’t really want to try and pick them out of your coat.”

Aziraphale coughed up more blood. He fished the measly handful of copper and iron out of his pocket and threw them at the young man, who couldn’t have been more then twenty. 

“Don’t you have a mother, to berate you for this?” The angel said bitterly. 

The menecary’s eyes hardened. 

“No.” The answer was short and aggressive, and Aziraphale huffed a laugh. Sore spot, them. 

He shouldn’t laugh. But his thoughts were muddled, flashing in and out of focus, just like his sight. He couldn’t help it. 

The man growled and punched him. 

Goddammit. 

Aziraphale had the _ worst _ luck, apparently. He coughed harder, eyes watering from the pain. The man spit and snatched the coins from the grass, dashing off into the dark. 

It was starting to rain. 

\--- 

Crowley was leaned against the wall, eyes twisted shut against the meager light in the cottage. He was breathing like he had just run a marathon. 

He still had to struggle into clothes. He was wearing a pair of tights and not much else, because he didn’t want to get any of his _ very _ nice outfits saturated and stewed in alcohol. Pickled, really, if the smell of him was any indication. 

\---

Aziraphale caught his breath after a long moment, trying to get his thoughts in some semblance of order. 

He was there to see Crowley. 

Crowley was there.

He should find Crowley. 

Crowley always knew what to do. 

Crowley would help him.

The angel, of course, didn’t realise the painfully loud distress signals(for lack of a better word) he was screaming at Crowley’s subconscious. 

He staggered off into the night, newly determined and doing his level best to stay alive.

\---

Crowley was flopped against his bed, staring at the black velvet in his hand. He couldn’t remember how to put it on. 

Thankfully, however, the specific cry for help(it tasted like Aziraphale, and there wasn’t really anyone else it could be) was starting to get more urgent, and drive out the oppressive melancholy. 

It felt like panic, racing up his spine, and he was moving more than he had in weeks(if not months. 28 years, Aziraphale, what the fuck). There was still a heaviness to his movements, like he was trying to run through water, but he was _ moving _. 

It felt like the rush of adrenaline after waking up from a nightmare. 

It felt like Crowley’s throat closing up, that he couldn’t breath.

It felt like it was _ getting closer _. 

\---

Aziraphale’s eyes were closed. He was navigating entirely from memory, winding his way unsteadily down streets and occasionally pausing to cough. 

Rain had wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, plastered his white-blond hair to his skull, and he licked the moisture from his lips gratefully. It didn’t actually help with the poisoning symptoms, but he wanted it to(and even after Gabriel had taken away his ability to perform miracles, he was still an angel, and still had some power) so it did anyway. 

Crowley’s house was close, he knew it, could feel the proximity with unwavering sureness. Truthfully, it had felt about that strong for the past twenty minutes of drunken lurching. 

It was fine. He went to Crowley’s cottage, once, forty or so years ago, and he somewhat remembered the way. He was in a carriage that time, however, so it was a questionable endeavor. 

\---

Crowley was, once again, on the floor, but for vastly different reasons. He had a coin spinning in the middle of a cleared patch of stone floor, and he was watching it intently. The sorrows and panic were shoved to the back corner of his mind, all his focus on the silver nickel in front of him. His eye twitched. It spun and spun, moving ever so slightly to one side before tottering over. 

Crowley cursed and slammed a hand on the ground. 

\---

What he was trying to do was a specific demonic trick, that he perfected himself(in a bar, on a bet). If he had a flat surface, and a coin of some sort, he could flick it into a spin to find a specific person or persons. 

It wasn’t, however, terribly reliable. 

\---

Aziraphale opened his eyes with a little gasp. He recognized this street, past the fact it seemed to be jumping up and down at him. He was woozy, incredibly, and he wanted nothing more than to just collapse, but he was close. 

He wobbled down the cobbled street, one shaking hand held out for some hope of balance. His unsteady eyesight was fixed on the void-black(because of course it was) door, near the end of the row of cottages. The ground bucked under his feet, and he made a sad little noise before nearly tipping into the gutters.

Three more steps. 

Two.

He held out a hand and tried his damndest to make contact with the wood. It seemed to work, or, at least, Crowley yanked it open with a _ crash _.

“_ Aziraphale _?” Crowley asked, loudly, far too loudly, and Aziraphale cringed.

“I- I didn’t know where,” Aziraphale stopped. He took a deep breath. “I didn’t know where else to go.” 

He then promptly closed his eyes and pitched forward into the very startled demon’s arms. 

\---

Aziraphale looked like he had been dragged through Hell and back. He was pale, sweating, and the faintest trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth made Crowley blanch on sight. The angel just straight up collapsing into his arms most certainly didn’t make him feel any better.

So Crowley dragged the angel in, gently settled him on the feather bed(that wasn’t feather a minute ago. Crowley still had the ability to do what he pleased, thank you very much. Nobody paid much attention to him downstairs). He was worried.

He laid the back of his hand against Aziraphale’s forehead and sighed. The angel was _ soaked _, running a fever, and hadn’t been able to do anything about it.

Crowley frowned, and the spot of contact flared like a beacon for a blinding second. 

Aziraphale gasped, jerking away. Crowley drew back, quickly, fear and concern covering his features. 

The angel was still unconscious. 

Crowley couldn’t do much, not without hurting him, so he instead left to make tea. 

The depression of the masses was forgotten in favour of the suffering of the few, he mused to himself. His kettle was balanced precariously in the fire he forgot to let go out, and he stared at it blankly. 

Aziraphale was obviously not okay, behaving erratically, broadcasting the most dramatic S.O.S. Crowley had ever heard, and couldn’t fix it himself. Crowley trying to vanquish the fever had given him a bit of insight, to the fact it wasn’t just rain and alcohol that was making him like he was, but he didn’t want to risk hurting Aziraphale to figure out what was wrong and not being able to fix it. 

\---

Aziraphale struggled awake. He was in a bed, not his bed, but a comfortable one. He squinted blearily. He still felt annoyingly close to dying. 

Crowley leaned over his line of sight with something that looked like relief. 

“Hey, Angel, alive in there?”

“What happened?” Aziraphale ground out, trying to quell the nausea threatening to bloom in his stomach. 

“I was hoping you could tell me, actually,” Crowley said quietly. He was smiling, but it looked forced. 

Aziraphale, in his addled state, could only think that Crowley should never be forced to fake a smile. The angel reached up a hand, somewhat surprised when it actually made contact with skin. Not as surprised as Crowley, who looked absolutely shocked to have a hand cupping his cheek. 

“Poison,” Aziraphale finally slurred out, his arm dropping. It was too much effort to keep his arm up like that. “Think Gabriel took away my miracles. Can’t,” He paused to wave his had about vaguely, whispering a little _ woosh _ noise. Crowley was still frozen in place, but finally managed a nod. 

“This is going to hurt, Angel. I’m sorry,” The demon said, looking away from Aziraphale’s gaze. He put one gentle hand on the angels shoulder.

Aziraphale screamed. He must have, because Crowley didn’t, but there was a scream in the room. The agony racing through his veins, starting from his shoulder, where Crowley was digging in his nails in an effort to keep Aziraphale twisting out of his grip, made stars dance across his vision. 

Crowley drew back after a few seconds, looking like he wanted to be literally anywhere else in the world(not entirely untrue). Aziraphale was panting, eyes wide, but he wasn’t dying. He could feel all his limbs, and the world wasn’t twitching around him. 

He did _ want _ to die, because holy _ fuck _ did that hurt, but Crowley had managed to suck every ounce of the nasty poison out of his system, so he was fine by all standards. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Crowley murmured quietly, and Aziraphale only now managed to get a good look at him. 

Crowley, the demon, who was most fashion forward and vain, looked like absolute _ shit _. 

His hair was straggly and greasy, looking like he hadn’t bothered to even _ try _ and clean it in a long time. Quite honestly, Aziraphale could see mats in it and cringed internally. His clothes were decades out of fashion, and they hung off his body like they didn’t belong there. Worry creased Aziraphales brow. 

“What happened to _ you _?” 

Clearly, this was not the response crowley had been expecting. He froze, hands still held up defensively, and blinked a few times.

“Pardon?” 

Aziraphale struggled to a sitting position, rotating his shoulder with a grimace. 

“Dear boy, you look like hell itself. What happened?” 

Crowley didn’t respond for a minute.

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing, everything’s tip top,” Crowley said. His jaunty grin was very, very fake. Aziraphale frowned. 

"You've always been a wretched liar," Aziraphale said. He was angry, and after what he had just been through, he felt it was justified. "You never tell me the truth, Crowley. For once, please, just tell me what's going on." 

Crowley didn't move. There were bags under his eyes, and his face looked gaunt, but he looked like _ Crowley _(and maybe Aziraphale hadn't realized how much he missed the bastard, but he did).

"Wh- it's been 28 years, and you decide to _ lecture _ me?" Crowley finally said with a bitter chuckle. "You're one to talk about looking like Hell. Should've just let you sweat it out in the street, blaring that bloody alarm in my head," Crowley was quiet, angry. 

"What _ 'alarm' _ ? I barely knew where I was walking, let alone have the capacity to send an _ alarm _ ," Aziraphale huffed, an annoyed little sound, and glared at the demon. "And I told you, Gabriel did _ something _ and someone poisoned me. You haven't answered my question." 

"I don't want to." Crowley was aware he sounded like a petulant child, as he crossed his arms angrily, but he stood by it. The foot stomping wasn't far behind, if he was being honest. Aziraphale snorted. "And besides, there was a cry for help. From you. It was _ loud _ . I should know, it was in _ my _ head." 

Speaking of Crowley's head, it was starting to throb painfully. Even with distractions, there was a nagging dread around the base of his skull. He wanted a drink. 

"Why would I have called _ you _ for help, Crowley?" Aziraphale said. He was, somehow, still inexplicably furious. Crowley was avoiding his question, and being maddeningly unhelpful about whatever 'cry for help' he was talking about. 

Crowley actually took a step back from the venom in Aziraphale's voice. 

"I don't know, Aziraphale. Why did you come to my house?" The demon hissed. His pupils were wide, and his eyes glinted with fury and insult. What right did this, this, this _ angel _ , have, to come into his house, and then _ berate _ him for something he didn't _ understand _. 

Aziraphale inhaled sharply. He was offended, they both were, and they were both too stubborn and egotistical to back down. Prideful beings, angels and demons, not an ounce of humility between 'em. And, of course, the best way to fix it would be to argue _ more. _ Flawless logic, truly.

"I was _ delirious _ , and I must have sensed the faintest bit of divine power from you." Aziraphale sniffed haughtily. "But, obviously, it was the wrong choice to come to a _ Fallen _ for help." 

There was a flash of shock and hurt in Crowley's eyes, and Aziraphale very abruptly realized he had, as the kids say, _ fucked up. _He opened his mouth to apologise, but Crowley beat him to it.

"Oh, yeah, _ obviously _ ," His voice was high and sharp and inexplicably angry, but there was more than just wounded pride behind his golden eyes. "I'm Fallen, obviously the bad guy here, of course. Right. I'll be seeing you then, _ angel _ ," and here he spat the little pet name with horrible ferocity, "Next time you manage to get yourself bloody _ poisoned _ , don’t come _ here _."

Aziraphale help out a hand, to stop the demon, maybe, but Crowley had whirled around and marched out the door into the pouring rain before he could bite out a single word. 

"Oh, dear," He said to himself. Cold dread was creeping up his spine. "What have I managed to do _ this _ time?"

\---

To his credit, Crowley staved off the tears until he was some sixty feet up in the air. His massive wings sent volleys of icy water careening away from him, and he squinted into the dark clouds around him. 

Trying to see through pouring rain while crying and swamped in repressed guilt isn't as easy as one might hope. 

There was a church somewhat nearby, he was sure, with a steeple that he could perch on. He would blend in perfectly with the gargoyles, with a bonus of being out of Aziraphale's reach. 

And, of course, the consecrated brick for an added reminded of what he was. Self pity was a toxic balm to this kind of agony, but Crowley was feeling very much in the mood for a dramatic church-top pity party. And there really wasn’t anything more dramatic than draping himself on the highest ledge to let the rain wash away his tears. 

\---

Aziraphale wrapped a borrowed coat around his shoulders and cringed at the _ state _ of Crowley’s home. He couldn’t do much, but he made an effort to pick up some of the bottles and set them neatly on the table(he tried to snap his fingers at them and get them to hop away on their own, but nothing happened. Damn Gabriel). 

The rain was coming down quite heavily at this point, making the street a muddy mess, and he sighed in regret of what was going to happen to his very nice _ white _ shoes. A sacrifice, he supposed, stepping over the threshold with a sad noise. 

He hadn't the faintest idea where Crowley went. He was still in the small village, a great blaring light, but Aziraphale couldn't get more than a vague guess at what direction the demon went. 

Some five thousand years of knowing Crowley, however, and Aziraphale could make a pretty good guess. There was a great big church, covered in gargoyles and fancy stonework, and Aziraphale was willing to bet that Crowley, in his misery, was curled under a stone wing somewhere(and he was very nearly right, too, but Crowley couldn't be bothered to hide from the rain. Instead, he was laying with his legs hanging over the ledge and wings flopped under him, a dreadful sadness soaking his feathers). So he headed off that way, oversized and very out of style coat pulled tight against his shoulders. 

\---

The burn of the brick under Crowley's flesh was the only thing keeping him from just pushing himself onto the ground. He was shivering, water soaking to his skin and clumping his downy feathers into a sopping wet mess. Betrayal burned bitter tears down his cheek, hot and salty, and he sniffed wretchedly.

One angry word from the angel and here he was, _ crying _ , on top of a _ church _ of all places. He wiped his face with one hand, wincing at the burn. Holy by exposure, or something. Either way that shit _ hurt _. 

Maybe Aziraphale was right. Maybe he was doomed to fall, to be a foul little demon, from the day he was created. Obviously She didn't want anything to do with him, that much was clear. If he was just a bit more cautious, or less inclined to talk, he wouldn't be scorned from what should be his _ home _. He missed it, some days. Crowley would never admit it, of course, but he missed the times when he knew that no matter his flaws, She would still love him. 

Benevolent and loving Almighty, sure. A parent's love, he had heard, the first time Crowley'd gone to a sermon, and he had laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed and cried and cried. 

\---

Aziraphale was right. Near the top of the imposing structure, past the downpour, was a flap of cloth. A bedraggled black feather. The faintest flash of red hair.

"Crowley!" He shouted. _ "Crowley!" _

There was a pause. Thunder rumbling distantly, and Aziraphale ran a hand through his waterlogged hair. 

"Go _ away _, Aziraphale." The response was cold, cutting neatly through the rain and any hope Aziraphale had had. 

"No! I'm coming up there," Aziraphale's voice wavered, seeing as he wasn't at all sure _ how _ he was going to get up there, but he was fiercely determined. 

A single slitted snake eye turned to watch him. The angel have a cursory reach towards his wings but, alas, Gabriel had taken his link to those, as well. He'd have to do it the _ human _ way, then. 

The wall was very nearly sheer, but the bricks were jagged rock and left more than enough handholds for one mostly mortal angel. He tugged the coat tighter, one last time, before striding towards the wall with undue confidence. 

Crowley leaned farther over the edge to watch with a frown. He was still hurt and angry, of course, but he couldn't help the concern and curiosity as Aziraphale began to very slowly climb. 

Az was almost halfway up before he slipped slightly. All the hair stood up on the back of Crowley's neck. He cursed under his breath, and flung himself off the brick. 

The pitch black wings snapped open with a _ crack _, and he beat them once, twice, before wrapping his arms around Aziraphale's chest and falling backwards. 

Aziraphale screamed slightly and clutched at Crowley's arms, but the demon knew what he was doing. They fell gracefully, for a moment, before Crowley flipped them and shot towards the sky. 

It wasn't falling; it was _flying_. 

\---

It felt like an eternity before Crowley set them both down, as gently as possible, on the roof of the church. Aziraphale was wide eyed and reluctant to let go to Crowley, but the demon detangled himself as best he could.

Rain rattled the tiled roof, lightning highlighting making the sharpness of Crowley's face. He looked grim. 

"Crowley-" Aziraphale said, softly, softly, his heart absolutely aching. 

"See ya, angel," Crowley's voice was quiet, as gentle as their landing, and he forced a tight little smile before turning away. He was just about to step off the edge, to fly away and maybe never come back, when Aziraphale made a decision.

"Crowley, wait!" Something in the angels voice made the demon turn, look over his shoulder with eyes of burnt gold, and suddenly, Aziraphale had no idea what he was going to say. 

"Yeah?" 

"I-" His breath caught in his throat, and he had the faintest vestige of an idea. "It's raining." 

Crowley stood stock still as Aziraphale unwrapped the coat(_ Crowley's _ coat, the demon noted absently) from his own shoulders to hold it carefully over Crowley's head. 

Crowley made a helpless little laughing noise. Aziraphale smiled hopefully, trying to ignore the water streaming down his face. Crowley was laughing harder now, a little desperately, like he had forgotten how to, and Aziraphale couldn't help but chuckle along.

He couldn't pinpoint when it changed from them laughing together to Crowley, wrapped up in his arms, crying softly in the rain. Crowley sank to his knees, and Aziraphale went with him willingly(heights, especially this far up, were not his friend). The tears running down his neck were blisteringly hot, especially in the icy water, but Aziraphale couldn't bear to pull away. Crowley had sunk into his arms like a drowning man, and Aziraphale, even if he was an angel, was a kind soul. 

So they sat, on the roof of the church, in the pouring rain, while Crowley wept and told him, for the first time, about the burn of the fall- his wings burning off and growing back, ever so slowly, the scars littering his flesh, the absence of light for so long.

Aziraphale felt, for the first time, a burning rage at the Almighty. It may be ineffable, but forcing out Her children who had done _ nothing _ wrong sure as Hell wasn't _ right _ . Nothing about this was _ right _. 

Crowley didn't notice Aziraphale's furious gasp when he said that it wasn't anyone's fault but his own. He didn't notice the miniscule tightening of the angels arms around him, didn't notice the gleaming tears that trailed down Aziraphale's cheeks, but he(thankfully) did notice when Aziraphale tilted his chin up to meet his gaze. 

"Darling, this wasn't your fault. You are better, kinder, than any of the Unfallen. I'm so sorry," Aziraphale said, his voice stern. Crowley couldn't breath from the weight of Aziraphale's stare, holding so much anger and sadness he could barely move. 

Crowley finally choked out a little sob and collapsed back against Aziraphale.

\---

They stayed there, collapsed against each other, until the clouds finally cleared and all that was left was a soft mist. Crowley had eventually succumbed to sleep, listening to Aziraphale breathe, but the angel stayed awake. His gaze was icy as he stared up into the soft blue sky. 

He was, for lack of a better word, distraught. He hadn't even _ thought _ of what it would have felt like(that's a lie- all angels are deeply terrified of falling, and have each spent some amount of time thinking of what it much be like). And now that Aziraphale was faced with the horrible truth about what it was, he was incredibly angry. 

How _ dare _ the Almighty do such a thing to Her own _ children _? 

(His mistake was presuming She felt love- She did, but not in the same way humans or Aziraphale did. It was more a distant, 'tough love', type deal. Not really quantifiable to anyone but Her.) 

\---

In other realms of reality, Gabriel thought Aziraphale probably learned his lesson. He was very bad at converting Earth time to Heaven time, and thought it had been much longer for the earth agent than it had. 

Gabriel flicked a switch with a smug little grin. 

The switch didn't do anything, it was just for the dramatics of it all(he also didn't understand drama). 

\---

Aziraphale made a funny little noise in the back of his throat. There was a noise a bit like a waterfall, and a flash of golden shining light behind his head(a nearby peasant saw it and it inspired a good many halos in biblical paintings), and Aziraphale had his celestial power back. 

The first thing he did was dry both him and the still sleeping Crowley with little more than a glance. Crowley made a soft little noise in his sleep, and Aziraphale smiled softly. 

The second thing he did was snap his wings into existence. He gathered Crowley against his chest, as carefully as he could, to avoid waking the demon, and took off. 

He was a good deal less showy about flying than Crowley, simply using it as a means of getting from point A to point B. He got no pleasure out of it(rather, he felt a little ill, because he very much didn't like being so far off the ground). 

The third thing he did was make the big large enough to accommodate Crowley's wings.

He was going to leave, setting the demon down and stepping away, but there was very suddenly a hand around his wrist. 

Crowley had one tired eye cracked open, and his grip was like iron. 

"Please, don't-" His voice was raspy.

Aziraphale gulped and nodded. He was going to just pull up a chair, but Crowley yanked him down. Aziraphale gasped quietly and vanished his wings away before they got caught between him and the bed. 

Crowley buried his head between Aziraphale's neck and shoulder. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him hesitantly, but when Crowley didn't seem to object, held him tightly. This time, the angel joined his demon in sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @wlwaziraphale uwu


End file.
